


No Feelings

by InsubstantialScribblings



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Games Time, Hayffie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsubstantialScribblings/pseuds/InsubstantialScribblings
Summary: "I'm not angry. Been telling you to piss off for years and now you're finally doing it. Why'd I be angry?"One year, Effie gets her chance of a long-awaited promotion.
Relationships: Haymitch Abernathy/Effie Trinket
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	No Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks, sorry this one isn't great, but thought I'd put it out anyway. Inspired by a song I heard recently for the first time in many, many years.

From his seat at the head of the ornate mahogany table, Haymitch hears her sharp intake of breath as she enters the room.

He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of his attention. He doesn’t need to see her anyway. He knows how she looks. Her eyes will be wide with surprise, deep pools of blue in the midst of those stupid feather eyelashes that are all the rage this season. One hand – her left, he thinks, because her right is sure to be gripping her clutch - will have flown to the base of her throat in an innate protective gesture. A useless one, he thinks. It sure as hell did nothing to help his tribute today.

“Haymitch.” she states and her voice has a slight, but unmistakeable, tremor to it. She has it under control in the next breath.

“You startled me. I thought you’d be out with Chaff.”

He looks up. He does it before he has time to think about it and he hates himself for it. He hates her for it too.

“Thought wrong then, didn’t you? Turns out you don’t have the monopoly on surprises after all.”

It’s a reasonable assumption, he concedes. It’s the way things normally play out during the first few days of the Games. It’s the same every year. They watch their tributes get slaughtered, then they both head out in an attempt to forget. Chaff is the perfect partner on such occasions. Eleven will generally have suffered the same fate and there is no need for explanations or commiserations. They will head to a quiet bar and drink themselves into a stupor in companionable silence. Where Effie goes, he neither knows, nor cares. Somewhere bright and sparkly where she can talk and laugh and dance herself into numbness. This is the way it has always been. The only variable is that they may fuck before they go their separate ways. It is always a rough, angry, borderline abusive, and yet strangely cathartic, event. The more brutal the tributes’ deaths, the harsher they will be with one another. He can’t deny he’d hoped for some of this release this evening, but she had been nowhere to be found. He knows why now.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks him, approaching the table.

“Spare us both the innocent act!” he spits, and he pushes the sheaf of papers he’s been studying towards her with no small amount of violence. Some of them crumple under his hand, some skitter across the table’s glossy surface and others still take flight momentarily before dropping to the carpet. He’s pleased with the mess they make; he knows it will distress her.

Sure enough, she purses her lips in annoyance and retrieves the scattered sheets, trying to restore them to some sort of order.

“Have you been going through my private papers?” she scolds indignantly.

“Oh, give it a rest!” he hisses. “We both know you left them here on purpose. Too much of a coward to tell me yourself?”

He expects a pithy reply, but it doesn’t come.

“Perhaps,” she admits in a small voice.

He jumps on this rare display of weakness.

“Didn’t need to worry. Don’t flatter yourself that anything you do has any effect on me.”

That’s not true and he knows it. Worse still, he knows she knows it too.

She bites back. “For someone who isn’t affected, something certainly seems to be making you angry.”

“’I’m not angry. Been telling you to piss off for years and now you’re finally doing it. Why’d I be angry?”

“You tell me!” she retorts.

She gathers the papers together and restacks them neatly on the table out of his reach, dropping into one of the chairs with a sigh.

“It shouldn’t come as a shock,” she opines. “You’ve always known that moving on was part of the plan.”

“Of course, the great plan!” he replies sarcastically, raising both hands in a mock gesture of worship. “Heaven forbid anything should get in the way of the plan!”

She lets that go. They both know that something has been in the way of the plan for years. They both know that something is him.

There’s no denying that Effie is one of the best at her job. She’s organised to the nth degree, ruthless when she needs to be, charm personified when that part needs playing. She’s a chameleon. A chameleon with both beauty and brains. She’s good all right. So good, in fact, that it has held her back. Before Effie, Haymitch would go through an escort a year. He has a whole arsenal of weapons to see them off – the drunken antics, his acid tongue, his refusal to engage with the tributes, to wear what he’s told, to attend appointments, to name but a few. Effie has proved to be a nut he just can’t crack, and heaven knows he’s tried. She’s the best chance the Gamemakers have when it comes to reigning in his behaviour, so they’ve never wanted to promote her.

If he’s honest with himself – and he tries not to be – he’s never really wanted her replaced either. She compromises with him on the awful clothes and the public appearances, she pretty much exclusively takes care of the tributes, the paperwork, the media. But she doesn’t give him an easy ride either. She argues with him, she answers back. She’s witty and intelligent and strong and he loves that. After the solitude of his life in Twelve, he relishes their spats. He wishes he didn’t.

“How’d you get Crane to agree to that?” he wonders aloud. “Don’t tell me you finally managed to seduce him? I always thought he was only batting for the other side.”

Effie shoots him a disapproving look. “Must you always be so vulgar? If you must know, he owed me a favour. I helped him with a rather delicate matter this winter. A small indiscretion with the husband of a government minister that I was able to cover up for him. He was very grateful.”

“Ah. I see. Blackmail then.”

“Not at all!” snaps Effie. “Seneca is a friend. His willingness to return the favour is a demonstration of loyalty. Not that I’d expect you to understand such a notion!”

“Seriously? You’re the one jumping ship and I’m the one who doesn’t understand loyalty?”

Effie huffs in annoyance. She has to concede on that point.

“Where are they sending you anyway?”

“So you couldn’t be bothered to read the whole document? Some things don’t change.”

She pauses and runs a hand over the crumpled paperwork. “Two. I am going to Two. Persimone is to retire after the crowning. Or after the Victory Tour, should one of their tributes win.”

“Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire!” he snorts. “You might get Brutus and some of the others dancing to your tune, but Enobaria’s gonna make me seem like a pussycat.”

“Maybe,” says Effie, “But it will be worth it.”

“So you can be a winner?” sneers Haymitch. “I’ve got news for you, Sweetheart – you’re still gonna see at least one of your kids die every year and that’s the best-case scenario.”

“I’m not stupid, Haymitch. But it will be different. They’re volunteers. They know what they’re getting into. They choose it. They’re trained. And for once I can help them. I’ll get real pledges from serious sponsors; we’ll be able to send them things that will actually help them win. I can take whatever Enobaria throws at me. At least I won’t have to lie to those terrified skinny children you refuse to mentor!”

“Well quite. ‘Cos they’ll be so much better off with me and whatever entitled simpleton they foist on Twelve next year!”

“Please don’t make me feel any more guilty than I do already,” requests Effie quietly. “I don’t see why you have to make this so unpleasant. Can’t you just wish me well? With no hard feelings?”

“Oh, there’s no hard feelings. What do you think this is? You ain’t my girlfriend, Sweetheart. There’s no feelings at all.” He stares at her defiantly and knocks back the remaining contents of his glass. He’s being cruel and he knows it.

“Of course not,” she replies, getting to her feet. “You have always been _extremely_ vocal on that score.” Her voice cracks on the last syllable and he is almost sure he hears her choke down a sob as she moves to the bar behind him, out of his line of sight. He hears the clinking of tumblers, of bottles violently handled, then the hiss and crackle of ice cubes as some sort of spirit hits them. A second later, a drink is slammed aggressively in front of him and Effie reclaims her seat, a glass of her own in her hand. Haymitch can smell the alcohol fumes from where he sits and watches as Effie tips her head back and downs the whole thing in one gulp.

“Steady,” he advises. “That’s strong. You’re not used to it.”

Effie regards him through already slightly glassy eyes. “What do you care?”

“I don’t want you to make yourself ill.”

“Why? Why would that matter to you? You confuse me, Haymitch. You asked me just now what I think ‘ _this_ ’ is. I know you meant it rhetorically, but shall I answer you? I have no idea. _None_! More than half a decade we’ve been doing ‘t _his_ ’ and I’m still no clearer! You take me into your confidence, and then tell me I understand nothing about you. When we’re at functions, you’re protective and possessive, then you tell me I repulse you. We have sex and it’s great, really great, and I know I’m not the only one who thinks so, but then you can’t get out of my bed fast enough. You say it means nothing to you. Well, it means something to me and I can’t stop that. Do you know how long it’s been since I was with someone else? Three years – that’s how long! I need to get out now, while I still can, before ‘ _this_ ’ swallows me whole!”

There are bright red spots burning in both her cheeks after this outburst and she slumps forward onto the table, her head on her arms to hide the tears Haymitch is sure are welling up.

He sits motionless, listening to her ragged breath as she struggles not to cry. It’s true what she says, all of it. He knows he treats her badly. He treats everyone badly; it’s a protective mechanism.

The fact of the matter is that she doesn’t repulse him anymore. He’s not sure any longer that she ever really did. He knows so much about her by now. He knows there’s much more to her than her Capitol image. He knows she’s a dissenter these days, if only in her own head. He’s more attracted to her than he has ever been to anyone in his life, even in her full Capitol attire. He craves her. He doesn’t want anyone else to have her. She understands him. Probably better than anyone. And that terrifies him. But tonight, he’s learnt that losing her terrifies him more. She’s everything he’s meant to hate. But he also knows she’s the only thing that gets him through.

He touches her arm and she flinches, but she doesn’t raise her head.

“I know I’m not fair to you. But I don’t… I can’t…” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “What is it you want from me, Effie? The way things are… I don’t know where you think this can go. Anyone connected to me has a nasty habit of turning up dead, you know?”

Effie looks up, leans back in her chair.

“I’m not a child, Haymitch. I know how things are. Who we are. I’m not a soppy teenager looking for roses round the door. Just some acknowledgment. Some consistency. Some _truth_. That’s what I want. Is it really so very much to ask?”

Haymitch takes a swig of his drink and considers this.

“I’ll try,” he says eventually. “When we’re here. In the penthouse. I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” she responds in a hushed tone.

“And you’ll stay?” he presses. “You’ll get rid of those transfer forms?”

She nods. “All right. I’ll think of something to tell Seneca.”

“You won’t change your mind?”

She pushes herself to her feet and picks up the forms. “I’ve got a lighter in my room,” she offers. “You can watch me burn them if you like.”

They stand together in her bathroom, watching the papers blacken and curl in the washbasin. There’s no saving them now.

“Satisfied?” she asks.

“Not completely,” he responds. “Will you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Take off the eyelashes. I hate them. Looks like you fell into the chicken coup.”

Effie mutters darkly about fashion and philistines but still she reaches into the cabinet for the bottle of solvent that will dissolve the glue and, moments later, the black fringing is gone from her face.

“Better for you?”

“A little,” says Haymitch, reaching up to her purple wig. “Now this.”

“No.” Effie’s voice is unyielding.

“C’mon, Sweetheart,” he coaxes. “You said you wanted some truth. How about you give me a little too? I want to see you properly.”

Even though she is a little drunk, Effie is resolute.

“I am ugly without my accessories.”

“Truth, remember!” scolds Haymitch. “Anyway, you’re beautiful. I’ve seen before.”

Effie is shocked.

“When?”

“A few times. When the peacekeepers bring me back late. When you have to sort me out.” He looks down, a little embarrassed at the thought of those times when she has to take care of him: hold him over the toilet bowl while he vomits, wrestle the soiled clothing from his drunken body.

“You can’t possibly remember that,” she stammers. “You’re always so out of it then…”

“I’m an alcoholic, I’m not blind,” he interjects. “And I’m a drunk _because_ I can’t forget stuff. I know what I’ve seen. And I know I liked it. So – truth, Sweetheart?”

Effie touches her wig uncertainly. “You won’t find it attractive,” she warns but she removes the pins that anchor it anyway. It’s Haymitch who reaches up to lift it from her head since her courage fails her and he lets it drop to the floor, running his fingers through the slightly flattened golden tresses of her natural hair.

“Stunning,” he pronounces. “Now the makeup.”

Effie shakes her head, but she stays still when he reaches for her lotion and cotton wool and wipes away every last bit of her warpaint.

She’s nervous. He can tell as her breathing becomes shallower, but she leans into his hand as his fingers trace the contours of her face, whimpers as his thumb brushes across her lips.

“Kiss me,” he commands her, and she obeys at once, losing her inhibitions as she senses his arousal.

“You want the truth?” he breathes against her slender neck. “You’re a little beauty.”

“How can I trust anything you say, Mr Abernathy?” she purrs seductively, running a hand up his thigh. “You lied before. You told me there were no hard feelings. And yet you seem to be having some _very_ hard feelings toward me right now.”

Haymitch sucks in a breath as she caresses him over his pants. “So vulgar, Miss Trinket. I think perhaps you have a little bit of District in you after all these years.”

Effie unzips his fly and reaches a hand inside to her prize. “How about you put _a lot_ of District in me?” she suggests and Haymitch doesn’t need to be asked twice.

It’s strange, lying together in her bed after, but it’s not unpleasant either.

He senses that Effie is not fully relaxed, still self-conscious about her bare face, her exposed hair, though he thinks she’s gained some confidence from his reactions. He thinks she’s crazy for not recognising her beauty, but he can understand to some extent – he feels pretty vulnerable himself right now. He likes the feel of her next to him, her smooth skin on his, but the knot of mild panic is there too. He can bear it, he thinks, it’s a fraction of what he felt when he found those forms, when he realised he was set to lose her.

She shifts by his side, tentatively rests her head on his shoulder. His hand is drawn to her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp beneath the curls. They lay in silence for a while until she releases a long-held sigh.

“What’s up?” he grumbles. “Thought this was what you wanted.”

“It is,” she confirms, eyes trained on the wall in a pointless show of insouciance since her nails are tracing patterns on his chest in a more than intimate gesture. “But I’m afraid.”

He doesn’t ask what of. He knows full well.

“You wanna change your mind? Get more forms from Crane?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “That’s _why_ I’m afraid.”

Now it’s his turn to sigh. “What a mess.” He pauses, unsure what else he can say. He doesn’t want to go back on the pact. He can’t. “Just gonna have to be careful, Sweetheart.”

He feels her nod against his shoulder. “No feelings,” she whispers.

“No feelings,” he confirms and, just like that, it becomes their watchword.

They both know it’s a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always gratefully received! Thanks for reading.


End file.
